“You mean you ain’t heared of the Fort Laramie Treaty yet, Lieutenant? Some call it the Sioux Treaty Hell, they been working on that treaty ever since the end of Red Cloud’s War back in ’66.”
“I’ve been back East since before the War,” Michael admitted reluctantly. “I can’t believe Red Cloud signed a treaty with white men, though.”
“He ain’t. Not yet, anyways. How do you know so much about it if you’ve been back East, like you say?” The mountain man eyed the soldier skeptically, drawing his own conclusions, his eyes dropping automatically to the soldier’s missing leg.
“Red Cloud and I knew each other as children. Things were a little more peaceful back then.”
“I reckon I know more than I want to about them Injuns, m’self. Been a scout for the army a long time. You hear things. More’n you want. They ain’t all as bad as the white men make out. I’d be madder’n hell if somebody was trying to steal my land and make up some cockamamie story to make it sound good back in Washington.”
He turned and spit another long stream of tobacco juice over the side and studied its trajectory, letting out a dissatisfied grunt when it disappeared into the churning waters hugging the side of the boat like a ladies underskirt.
“Side wheelers sure kick up a heck of a fuss in the water,” the mountain man allowed.
“Amazing,” Michael agreed. “Who would have thought it, huh?”
“I know. What’ll they invent next? Name’s Nathaniel Franklin, by the way,” said the mountain man, turning so he could hold out a meaty paw of a hand towards Michael. “Most folks just call me Big Nate.”
Michael placed his hand into that hand with a firm grip that surprised the mountain man. Using crutches a lot builds up a man’s strength without him even trying. “Well, Big Nate. It’s a pleasure. How much longer do you suppose it will take us to get to Fort Randall?”
“Well now, that all depends…..” Big Nate said, launching into another long-winded narrative that left Michael free to enjoy the riverbank passing by.
***
Michael looked around the minuscule cabin for a final time. The rest he had given his prosthesis on the trip had healed the galls on his thigh, so that he was able to wear it without too much pain. It would have been too humiliating to be borne; to arrive at his new post wearing crutches.
With his carpetbag in one hand, and his crutches in the other, he stepped out of the cabin and closed the door. Without even a hint of a limp, he walked towards the front of the upper deck of the steamboat, where he came upon the mountain man from that morning.
Big Nate leaned against the rail like he had not moved all day. Just before Michael reached him, the man launched a dark stream of tobacco juice over the side of the boat in a long golden arc. Michael noticed that seeing how far he could spit his tobacco juice was a habit of Big Nate's and a disgusting one at that.
Hearing Michael’s approach, Big Nate turned towards the sound, and seeing Michael, grinned around the cud of tobacco in his jaw.
“Lieutenant,” he boomed. “Don’t you look fine and dandy. I swear, you’re going to be the prettiest officer at Fort Randall. You better watch out for them boys what’s been there a while.” He winked at Michael.
YOU ARE READING
A Bride For The Asking -- (on hold)
RomanceRose McGregor flees the post-civil war south as a mail-order bride, with no other hope than to have a home of her own, a full stomach, and someone to take care of her. She never expected to find more pain and hardship than she's already suffe...
